Chapter 6
Even though our committee’s fundraiser was the last one, the one in the beginning of December, I wanted to gather the members quickly and figure out a strategy to win. I didn’t just want to text the members on my list. I decided to call.
“Hi, I’m Gabby VanGunderson, I’m the committee chair that you volunteered for. We’d like to have a meeting?—”
“Gabby who? I am too busy for meetings.” Click.
I tried another number on my list—Amber Sanchez.
“Hi, this is Gabby, and I’m calling about the committee…”
Her annoyance wasn’t hidden in the air waves. “I switched committees. Didn’t they tell you?”
“No…”
“I joined Beau’s. He’s got some awesome idea that is sure to win.”
I called ten other people.
“I’m busy.”
“I joined a different club.”
“I’m sick this week.”
“What? I didn’t subscribe to that.”
“Wrong number.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Maybe next week.”
“Call back in ten minutes.” (No answer when I did.)
No answer.
Voice mail message.
I called every name on the list. The service club was great to meet other ambitious college kids, but at the call to real action, nobody wanted to do anything.
Even Marie had to do her liveblog thing and wasn’t available.
My phone’s screen darkened in my hand. “How discouraging. I have cooties or something.”
Kat jumped up and started searching through my hair. Stunned, I just waited patiently for her to finish, still holding my phone in my hand. She searched my scalp thoroughly.
“You’re clean,” she pronounced, dropping my hair, patting my head. She sat back down in her chair.
“Thank you,” I said slowly, redialing a number, not at all relieved. “I don’t know if we can win. Other groups have more people, more resources.”
Kat was on her back doing yoga bicycles in the air. “Hovering near Beau’s popular group, I overheard Cidney McNeil say that her mother owned a florist downtown, and that she could get her to sponsor their committee. And Bailey Fridstein’s dad practiced law for some big names in town and would donate. Haddy’s parents own a local grocery store and a Fred’s Sporting Goods, and Thomas Allan’s parents own like all the Subways in town.”
“Kat how did you remember all that?”
She sat up and shrugged.
The other groups seemed to be even more connected. What was I thinking taking this on? I combed the list to see if someone I missed might pick up.
In the end, the only people who had time to meet were some guy named Lawrence Getty, Lisa, Kat, and I. I begged Lisa to come just because it wasn’t a meeting with only three people.
Lawrence showed up fifteen minutes late. He said his pants got caught in the chain of his bicycle, and I didn’t doubt him because his pant leg looked like it had been chewed by a dog.
“Call me Larry,” he said, pushing up his glasses, when we all got settled.
As to why he put Lawrence if he wanted to be called Larry when he signed up was beyond me. And the shortened name did nothing to make him more attractive. The only sign he might have gone through puberty was the zits on his face and the slight smell of body odor. Having had bad acne myself in high school—you could have played connect the dots on my face,— didn’t count it as a strike against him. He was just scrawny, hunched, and methodical. I pitied him because he seemed to be the only person in the world who was more clueless than me. And even he owned a bicycle, his giraffe legs cycling around his pedals.
“Where do we start?” he asked, folding his long legs under him and sitting on the grass outside the Comm building. His pants were too short and exposed lots of white socks and white ankles.
I cleared my throat. “First, we have to figure out what we want to do for our fundraiser. The winner gets a chance to pitch a non-profit in DC. Any ideas?” I asked.
“How about we collect old computer parts and sell them?”
“Who would buy them?” I wasn’t going to shoot down Larry’s first suggestion.
He shrugged, and his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them up again. “There are places that buy scrap material.”
“How much do you think we could get from each old computer?”
“About two fifty.”
That surprised me. That might actually be possible—if we got enough computers donated we could actually make enough cash. “Wow, two hundred and fifty dollars. Not bad.”
“No. Two dollars and fifty cents.”
“Hm,” I said, trying not to sound impatient. “We’d have to sell quite a bit to make any money. I’d say to win we’d have to make at least ten grand. That would be how many computers…” I paused to think. Math in my head wasn’t my strong suit.
“Four thousand,” he said.
I nearly choked. There went that idea.
“That’s impressive,” Lisa said timidly, raising her gaze from reading.
I turned in time to see Lisa catch his eyes briefly over her book, then bury her nose in the pages.
For the first time since he met with us, Larry smiled. It was a nice smile. I loathed to see it go, so I didn’t shoot his idea down as an impossibility, but I had to keep the dialogue going. “Well, let’s put it on the list. Any other suggestions?”
“We could sell a kidney.” Kat was deadpan.
“Um, I think that’s illegal,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “It is? Nobody told me!”
I was starting to get discouraged. “How about something that we could make and sell? Just throw ideas out, and I’ll write them down.”
“A bake sale?”
I scribbled Larry’s suggestion.
“Rocks!”
“What? Who would buy rocks, Kat?”
“I don’t know. But we could get them for free.”
“But it wouldn’t matter if no one would buy them.”
Kat pouted.
“We could sell a service,” Larry offered.
“Okay, just name some things. Brainstorm.”
“Fixing computers.” Larry again.
“I don’t know how to fix computers,” I said.
“I do.”
Not surprising.
“So do I!” said Kat.
I tapped my pencil on the list we’d created. “How would we get the word out?” It just wasn’t something I was interested in. “And that would mean a lot of work for the two of you to make the ten grand.”
“We could just charge like five hundred bucks an hour,” Kat said.
That defied the laws of economics. “Okay, I’m not going to turn anything down right now, but we need more ideas.”
“Garage sale,” Larry suggested. I wrote it down, frowning. It would take a lot of cast off junk to make ten grand.
“Write a song and put it on Spotify. I can play the guitar!” Air guitar motions from Kat. Kat was living in an alternate universe. But I wrote it down.
“Car wash?” Larry suggested.
“Oh, that’s too hard,” Kat said. “How about write a novel and sell it online?”
“Because that’s not hard,” Larry retorted.
Kat crossed her arms across her chest. “Maybe it would be hard for you, but I’ve successfully sold hundreds of copies of my memoirs.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Bake sale. Did we say that already?”
I nodded to Larry who asked the question.
“Dog massaging.” That was Kat of course.
“Dog walking.” Larry.
“Sell dog food.”
I put my pencil down. “Kat!”
“What?”
“We can’t make dog food and sell it.”
“I thought we weren’t shooting anything down yet. I’m just letting my creative chi flow.” Closing her eyes, she went back into a yoga shoulder stand, then let her legs hinge open, connecting the bottoms of her feet together and bringing them down to her behind.
“We need to come up with a way to make ten grand.” So far none of these were plausible. “These ideas would net us hundreds not thousands.” I let a deep irritated sigh slip through my lips. We had to win. Or at least Beau couldn’t win. Wasn’t there someone else to help me? Lisa was still off by herself turning pages of her book and not really paying any attention to the meeting.
“What about you, Lisa? Any ideas?”
She looked over her book with eyes magnified by her glasses. I didn’t have any hope that she’d have anything good to offer. Or any hope that she’d even answer me.
“How about a dance?” she said in a soft whisper.
“What’s that?” I asked, the idea tickling the areas around my brain.
“You know—music, dresses, dancing.” Kat still had her eyes closed, meditating.
“Yes, Kat, I know. Even though I didn’t go to my high school prom, I know what a dance is.”
“Our own mini charity ball,” came Lisa’s soft voice over her paperback. “Invite people in the community to come support our project—the mayor, elected officials, business men and women, students. Charge for admission, have some entertainment, get word out about our project. You can charge a bit more for a charity event.”
My mind went wild thinking about dressing up in a formal gown, wearing a dark cornflower blue dress with white gloves, with my hair in an updo; meeting the mayor and asking for donations. “It’s a brilliant idea!”
“I don’t know,” Larry started, who seemed to get nervous just mentioning the possibility of a date. “Sounds expensive.”
“Maybe Larry’s right,” Lisa said.
“No, it’s a great idea!” I had to stop her before she shot down her own idea.
Larry counted on his fingers. “We’d have to hire a DJ and rent a hall. There are advertising costs, decor—some major upfront costs.”
“My brother’s a DJ.”
We all turned to Kat, who had come out of her reverie.
“He’ll do it for us.”
I raised an eyebrow of skepticism. “We’d need a real DJ.”
“He’s a real DJ. Really famous, too.”
“Oookaay.” I was never certain how much of what Kat said was true, how much was bald-faced lies, and how much was what was true for her… in her reality. “But would he do it for free?”
“I’ll ask him.” She grabbed out her phone vigorously texting. “He says it sounds like a cool idea. He’ll do it if he doesn’t have a gig that night.”
“So we have a DJ,” I said.
“Maybe,” said Larry, wrinkling his nose under his glasses.
“So we maybe have a DJ,” I said. “Now we just need a hall, decorations, advertising, and a lot of luck! Why does it always take money to make money?”
Larry shrugged, leaning back on the grass. “Maybe we can do an auction as well, with donated items.”
“Who will donate items?” Kat asked.
I tapped the pencil on my chin. “Businesses donate for a tax write-off or for advertising. All businesses have an advertising budget,” I said. “So we’ll go and canvass businesses in town and say, come to our ball and give us expensive stuff to donate.”
“It just seems so much to organize and coordinate,” Kat shook her head. “So much that could go wrong. And it sounds hard.”
If we were going to DC, everyone had to be on board. I couldn’t do this myself. “You do want to win this, right?” I asked her. “And go to DC, right?”
She nodded.
“We could just do an auction?” Larry said. “I hate dancing.”
“How would we get people there otherwise?” I ask. “And besides, we’d still have to advertise and rent a place so we might as well dress up. Everybody likes dressing up.”
“I don’t,” grumbled Larry.
“Okay every girl,” I clarified.
“Not every girl,” said Kat.
“Okay, not every girl, but lots of girls.” I picked up my phone. We had a winning idea, I just knew it. But we might need some help. “Should I call Lincoln and ask him if we can get some kind of seed money?”
“Yes, but not now. It’s hot, and I’m ready to go inside.” Lisa already stood and brushed yellowed grass from her shorts.
“All right. I’ll call him later.”
* * *
Sitting in my living room,my phone taunted me. I hated looking at it. If I did, my heart started beating. I picked up the phone. I put it down. Gah! Why was this so hard?
Calling a boy wasn’t bad. If my heart would just stop beating so hard to where I could actually breathe! It’s not like I was calling for a date. I needed to run our idea past him. How do I make a professional phone call to an attractive guy?
What did the book say?
I opened it and flipped to Section 3, Chapter Seven: Telephone Conversations.
“‘In today’s culture, it seems forward for a woman to call a man first. Let him be the one to dictate how much and how often to establish the connection. If he has your phone number and doesn’t call, you can be assured that he is not interested in taking the relationship any further.’”
I slapped the book closed. Arg! If I waited for him to call, I’d never get a chance to tell him. He didn’t even have my number! Stupid book written in the sixties. I kicked the book away from me. The feminist movement had happened since then. Calling a guy was no longer taboo. Besides, he wrote me his number. He wanted me to call.
Or did he?
On the other hand, he also had my phone number on the committee sign-up sheet he took a picture of and if the book was true, then I should wait for him to call me.
My fingers tapped my phone.
So much in the world has changed since the sixties. But human nature had not.
Do guys really want to be the ones to set the limits—at least at first in communication?
Was that what Beau disliked in me? Was it because I always called him? Or because I always called him at eight at night? He said I was too clingy, but was I too forward? Too predictable? Maybe I didn’t let him chase me enough? Maybe he took me for granted. Maybe men really do like to be the one to set the terms.
But if I didn’t call Lincoln, he might think I’m being lackadaisical.
Or, he could think I actually have a life, and he has to fight for my attention. Be unavailable for once.
But this was a business phone call, not pleasure.
Right?
If I call him, he would know we had our meeting. He would like our great idea. He would see I’m a go-getter. If he calls me, I look less needy, less clingy.
Beau thought I was clingy.
I set down my phone. He had my phone number. He could call me.
Making a decision empowered me. Like I didn’t have to worry about it anymore. I breathed a sigh of relief. I snuggled into my chair and started some homework. This was so much easier.
Kind of.
I threw down my pencil. What if he forgot all about me and our group? What if he never called, and we didn’t get to participate in the contest.
“I’d better call,” I said out loud. I reached for my phone. My body tingled. My armpits prickled with sweat. “I can’t do it.”
Just then the phone started buzzing. A local number. I picked it up. Probably someone calling back about the meeting we already had.
“This is Gabby.” Maybe this was unnecessary since it was my phone, but the book said in telephone conversation to announce who you are as soon as possible. Of course the book was published before caller ID. And before everyone had personal cells.
“Hey, Gabby, I was just checking to see how your meeting went.” His voice sounded familiar. His tone, too.
“Lincoln?” My heartbeat outpaced my breathing, but only just barely.
“No, this is Beau.” Oh, I should’ve recognized his voice. Except this was the first time he’d called me since…Well, since for as long as I could remember. “I was checking to see if you were able to decide on a fundraiser or if you needed help.” If it had been anyone other than Beau, his asking would’ve sounded like a kindness. But I knew his true intent. His offer was patronizing.
“No, we got it all figured out. But I do have a question, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, is there any startup money to help with advertising or anything?”
His laughed wickedly. “Gabby, the whole purpose of this contest is to make money not spend it.”
My face flamed. “I know, but?—”
“Most of the other groups have money donated to them to start up. Don’t you have anybody who can back you?”
“Not really.” Who had those kinds of connections? I sure didn’t. My dad lived paycheck to paycheck and didn’t have money to back us. Nor would he deem this little adventure worthy of such an investment.
“Finding a backer is the only way you can break the twenty-grand mark.”
“Twenty grand?” My throat tightened around my voice.
“Yeah, that’s what our group made last year.”
Double what I expected. I leaned my head against the wall.
“We’re hoping to beat that this year.”
“What are you guys doing?” I gripped the phone and swallowed hard.
“No telling until we all present our plans next week! You’d better be getting support. Just from experience, bake sales and car washes won’t be able to bring in the kind of serious dough we’re expecting to bring in. This is college, girl, not high school.”
“Oh, okay.” My whole body trembled.
“Well, good luck to you!” His voice dripped with condescension.
“Yeah, thanks!”
Yikes. Twenty grand! My homework was so back-burner. How could we even do this? It was time to canvass local businesses and get enough donations for the auction.
I needed those sweet people-skills the book promised, and I needed them now.